Pain pulsed through my head. Fearing the slightest movement might intensify the pain, I remained motionless with my eyes shut for a long while. Where was I? What happened?

A scene flashed in my mind. I was shoved through a revolving door of iron bars into a crowd of sneering young men. Some stood with fists at their sides ready for a confrontation while others paced like caged animals. A tall black guy stood with his hands gripping the bars and screaming for his lawyer. Someone was puking, aiming for a floor drain. Men sat on the floor with their backs against the wall, dejected and resigned. A few sprawled, sleeping on the floor like they were on a bed.

I was in jail. In the drunk tank. Laying still, I opened my eyes, and surveyed the scene. Rough characters roamed aimlessly in the crowded holding cell. With eyes closed again, I remembered the party, my bachelor party.

A dozen friends, half buddies from the neighborhood and the other half fellow Ohio State students, came to my campus apartment a week before I was to marry and leave for a job in Baltimore. A few drinks, some poker, and a hearty sendoff. That was the plan.

The refrigerator was stocked with beer and three magnum bottles of wine—Chianti, Rosé, and Burgundy. A boxed deck of Bicycle cards was on the kitchen table, now in the middle room of my apartment, the parlor of an old house, furnished with a green naugahyde couch, two matching chairs, and fake walnut end tables. The walls were psychiatric green. A bare bulb hung from a ceiling fixture that once held a chandelier. Doors led to a tiny kitchen and two bedrooms. Paper prints of Firpo knocking Dempsey out of the ring and Mont Saint-Michele were thumbtacked to the plaster walls.

My roommate, Arthur Tobin, a Jewish suburban kid from Massachusetts was eager to meet my neighborhood buddies. Joey and his brother-in-law, Kelly Gray, came first. Arthur grinned sheepishly when Joey’s large hand enveloped his. Kelly waved before he tipped a fifth of Jim Beam up toward the ceiling. “Skullbuster!” he proclaimed thrusting it toward me. I graciously declined, and he turned up the bottle for a long swig. “Good for what ails you,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Good thing I drove,” said Joey with a nod toward Kelly. Ronnie was right behind them. I nodded and led the way to the kitchen where I flung open the refrigerator and said “Pick your poison.” Ronnie took a long-necked Stroh’s and pried off the top with a churchkey in a single fluid motion. Joey poured himself half a glass of Chianti. I opened a bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label to begin the party.

I saw Tim and his best friend Ernie mounting the front steps and opened the door for them. Tim cradled a fifth of Cutty Sark scotch like a football. At the back door, Arthur welcomed Denis, the leading campus radical, wearing a tie after a TV interview on free speech. Tom Doughtery came straight from work in his suit.

Tim stood next to me sloshing his Cutty on the rocks, and asked, “Finish that thesis?“

“Damn straight. Footnotes and all. Eighty-seven pages,” I replied. “Ready to walk across the stage and collect that sheepskin.”

A few more guys filtered in, found something to drink, and gathered to watch the stud poker game. “Call his hand” and “Raise him” advised the kibitzers noisily. Kelly rose from the couch, peeked at Joey’s hole card, and told him, “If you don’t double that pot, you don’t have a hair on your ass.” Several guys roared their approval. Joey did and lost. He shook his head and downed a large glass of Chianti and called for more. Each time he lost a pot, he gulped more wine, and he lost a lot. Joey seldom played poker or drank more than one or two beers. He was drinking Chianti in from a tall glass.

When some guys were getting ready to leave, Tim held his Cutty Sark high and called for a toast. “To Michael’s marriage and success in Baltimore.” Cries of “Hear, hear,” rose in a loud chorus, followed by upturned glasses.

Joey stood, Chianti in hand, and said “You’ve worked hard, and you deserve to make big bucks.” More cheers and more drained glasses. I bowed slightly and downed my Jack and water. A night to celebrate. I was home and had no need to hold back. I refilled my glass.

Friends stopped by to have a drink and give me a pat on the back. Joey was loudly cursing his bad luck, but Kelly slept undisturbed on the couch. Alcohol amplified conversations around the room. As I returned from the bathroom, I stopped in the doorway and allowed myself some satisfaction. Friends were wishing me well in the next phase of my life, newly married and professionally employed in Baltimore.

I poured an inch of Jack into my glass and added ice cubes. I asked Denis about his interview and the demonstration planned by the Student for Liberal Action. As he was explaining strategy for disrupting graduation ceremonies, we heard a full-throated scream from Joey.

“Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle!” He overturned the table and threw his wine glass at the wall like a fastball. Glass shattered and a red splotch marked the spot. Everyone froze in place. Everyone but Joey. He held the neck of a magnum, wound up like a pitcher, and hurled the heavy bottle at the red splotch. Lines in the plaster radiated from the spot as the magnum bounced back, and Joey laughed. Some chunks of plaster fell to the floor exposing horizontal strips of wood lath.

Everyone backed away from the wall. Joey was not finished. The next magnum splintered the lath and landed in the kitchen. As we stood gaping at the hole in the wall, Joey was completing his windup and threw another strike. The bottle sailed through the hole and clanged into the white stove. More laughter from Joey.

Tim got to Joey’s side, put his arm round him, speaking his name softly, and moving him toward the door. Tim had worked as a bouncer at the Vogue Lounge. I shook Kelly awake with some difficulty. “What happened? Was there a fight? Hate like hell to miss a fight.” I guided him out to Tim’s car where Joey sat stone-faced in the front seat. I pushed Kelly into the back seat.

I staggered inside and saw the Chinese exchange students from upstairs on the landing staring into my apartment. I waved as I staggered by and shut the apartment door behind me. Our guests were leaving hurriedly. Some congratulated me and others offered sympathy for the damage.

Arthur and I sank into chairs and stared at the damage for a minute or two. We laughed. Alcohol was still coursing through our veins. I said, “For Christ’s sake!” We laughed again.

I struggled to my feet. “I’ll worry about this place in the morning—as someone said in a movie.” I moved toward my bedroom when red lights strobed through the window. The door was kicked open and two cops rushed in with billy clubs raised. Arthur and I blanched and put our hands up.

Our landlord was right behind them, yelling repeatedly, “Take them downtown. I’m pressing charges.” One of the cops roughly turned me around, pulled my arms behind my back, and clamped on handcuffs. He tightened them until they cut into my wrists.

“Goddam punk college kids,” sneered the cop as he jerked my arms up and pushed me forward. A few spectators gathered to watch the cops frog walk us to the paddy wagon. The landlord assured the cops he would be at the station to swear out a warrant.

After the wagon door slammed, Arthur said, “I hope they don’t call my dad. He’ll go ape shit.” We sat glumly as the paddy wagon bounced toward the Central Station. Hustled into the station, waiting in line with toughs and hookers, we were worried sober.

Our parents were sleeping soundly, maybe dreaming about their fine, young sons pursuing their education at the university. We cringed at their coming disappointment in us. I remembered their warnings that a police record would follow me forever, a black mark that could never be expunged. Almost as bad as a scarlet letter trumpeting that We had strayed from the straight and narrow path.

When we got to the desk, Arthur said meekly, “I want to make my one phone call now.”

“When you sober up, asshole. You’re going in the tank with all the other drunks, bums, and criminals. Enjoy your stay,” sneered the desk sergeant.

My recollection of processing is hazy. A brisk pat down, removal of the painful handcuffs, trying to remember my social security number for the form, thumbs and fingers pressed on the ink pad, and belts, watches, rings, coins stuffed into a canvas bag. Finally we were shoved through a revolving door of horizontal iron bars.

“Don’t make eye contact,” Arthur whispered. We made our way through the milling crowd of
characters from a prison movie to an empty spot on the far wall. We sat with our backs to the wall casting furtive glances at the rogues roaming about. “Pretend to sleep,” Arthur said with urgency. I closed my eyes and weariness weighed on me, but I didn’t drift off to sleep. What got into Joey? Drunk, of course, but he wasn’t angry when he threw the bottles. He was laughing, gleefully smashing up our apartment. Not a fighting drunk or a crying drunk, but definitely destructive.

I slouched to a prone position on the cold concrete floor, eyes still closed. I recalled one night when Joey returned from a delivery at Territa’s Pizza where he worked and I hung out. His face was flushed and his eyes shone when he returned from a delivery.

“I hit a chicken on Mock Road. It tried to fly out of the way, but it only got as high as the right headlight. Feathers flew everywhere, and I bumped over the body with front and back right tires. I only had to go a little off the road to hit it,” he concluded with a long laugh. He nodded and smiled broadly to confirm how pleased he was with himself.

As I lay on the cold concrete, the image of the magnums crashing through the green plaster and gray lath returned. I winced and shook my head involuntarily. Another memory of Joey came into my head surfaced in my aching head.

We were riding around in the nearby countryside where subdivisions would replace farms in the next year or two. With no money to spend, we were bored. Joey abruptly ordered Bernie to stop the car. At the side of the road in front of a lone farmhouse with no lights on, Joey pointed to the windows glowing in the moonlight. “Gleamers!” he said with enthusiasm. Dick and I looked at each other blankly.

Joey was out of the car gathering the largest stones in the gravel. No headlights were in sight. “Watch this,” he chortled as he pelted the house with rocks until one hit its mark, and the old, thin glass clattered to the porch roof below. Joey laughed maniacally.

Despite our urgent pleas, Joey refused to get in the car. Bernie screamed, “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.” Joey ignored us and heaved rocks at the other moonlit window until it too shattered and was replaced with a dark void. In the car, Joey’s face shone as he went on and on about those “gleamers.” Joey led future forays into the country to stone “gleamers,” but I stayed away.

I slept fitfully on the hard floor. My arm was a pillow. Arthur woke me, saying they were paging us. I scrambled to my feet and we hurried to the gate. A guard verified our identity by alternately staring at us and our driver’s licenses. Tim and Andy Fanta, lawyer for the Student Liberation Association, were at the desk. We signed forms Andy put in front of us. As the desk sergeant scowled, Andy led us down a staircase and out to his car. It was 3 am.

“You’re out on your own recognizance with an arraignment next month, but I’m sure I can get Judge Schwartzwalder to drop the charges after you repair the damage to your apartment,” said Andy, adding, “The owner is plenty pissed.”

We profusely thanked Andy and Tim who found Andy at Larry’s Bar, the hangout for Fabian Socialists, Trotskyites, Stalinists and other leftists. He represented all the campus radicals.

Back at our apartment, Arthur and I groaned when we saw the devastation in our apartment. The overturned table, broken glass, empty wine bottles, and the hole in the wall.

“If Andy’s right, we won’t have a record from this. Pretty damn lucky,” I said.

“Lucky!” Arthur asked. “We just got our apartment trashed and spent time in jail with a bunch of drunks. You call that lucky?”

No one was behind the counter at the Berkeley City Planning Department at 7:45 am on Monday, my first day. I stepped into the next room and prepared to announce my presence with a loud “Hello?” when I almost ran into a casually dressed woman with an empty coffee pot in each hand. We froze in place, inches apart. She spoke first, “You must be Michael, the intern from Cornell.”

“Yes, I’m Michael, but I’m from Ohio State,” I replied as I moved back.

“Then Walter is the intern from Cornell. Sorry. I’m Molly O’Brien. I’ve got to make coffee,” she said moving toward a small room nearby with a two-tiered coffeemaker on the counter. The boss likes a steaming cup of coffee as soon as he sits down at his desk.

I followed her and asked when everyone came in. She laughed and said the office opened at 8, but people drift in during the next half hour. As she poured water into the machine, she said, “I’m on the front counter so I have to be here in case a citizen shows up at 8. Then I make up excuses for whoever they want to see. I say they’re at breakfast meetings.” With her open, freckled face without a trace of make-up, she would be credible.

As the coffeemaker moaned and sputtered, I asked how long she’d worked for the city and was surprised when she said, “Twelve years, began in 1954 as receptionist and now I’m the Zoning Administrator.” She tossed her hair back as she spoke, revealing flecks of gray and small creases at her eyes as she smiled.

With coffee in hand, Molly led me to a cubicle in the back of the office, and showed me where to get tablets, pens, pencils and drafting supplies. I sharpened pencils and carefully aligned them next to my yellow tablet. John Grey came to my desk, introduced himself as Deputy Director, and took me to a room where the Planning Commission met around an antique, oval table surrounded by high-backed, well-cushioned chairs.

He rolled two chairs to a map of the city that covered an entire wall and motioned for me join him, but he stood by the map and used a pointer to give me an overview of the city like a general briefing lieutenants about a battlefield. He began with city hall and the park across the street, Telegraph Avenue and downtown, the Sproul Plaza on the UC campus where students demonstrated for free speech and cause du jour, especially in the Spring, and the curvy streets of the Berkeley Hills neighborhood overlooking San Francisco Bay.

“Here’s West Berkeley, better known as ‘The Flats.’ It’s a neighborhood of small bungalows on narrow lots. It’s like the Oakland’s ‘Flats,’ the home of the Black Panthers. Mostly Black renters, a few elderly white homeowners, and some students jammed into houses. A few businesses are still open on San Pablo Avenue. The Planning Commission has promised the residents a Neighborhood Improvement Plan by the end of this year. Does this stir your interest?”

“Yes. sir. As an undergrad sociology major I read studies of neighborhoods in Boston and Chicago. Sounds interesting,” I replied like I did in class when I sure of the correct answer. Those were Italian and Polish neighborhoods, but I didn’t mention that.

“Good. I want you to gather data and prepare maps illustrating existing conditions. Molly will give you some blank maps of West Berkeley. First, you need to review the Master Plan, Zoning Ordinance, and Six-Year Capital Improvements Program. Used to be a Five-Year Plan, but that sounded like the Soviets,” he said with a smirk.

As I walked past Molly’s perch on a stool behind the counter with an armful of planning books, she said, “Walter from Cornell, has arrived. I’ll introduce you.”

Walter, a pudgy fellow in a three-piece suit, gave me a limp handshake and a wan smile. “I am going to assist Mr. Barnes in the initial conceptualization of the new 20-year master plan, Berkeley in the Year 1987.” He didn’t ask about my assignment.

I returned to my desk and the dense prose of the official reports. I found it helpful to fortify myself with repeated trips to get coffee to avoid nodding off on my first day. The resulting trips to the rest room also kept yawning to a minimum.

The reports rarely mentioned West Berkeley, but I located it on maps of transportation arterials, housing conditions, retail business, and industry. Molly delivered an aerial photo and maps of the neighborhood showing structures, zoning, utilities, and land use. I poured over the aerial photo that extended into the bay, the university, and Berkeley Hills with long winding driveways, sprawling houses, and swimming pools. Just before five o’clock, my co-workers began to stir and by the time the bells rang out from the campus clocktower, I had exchanged quick good-byes with Molly, John, Walter, and the other dozen or so people I met that day.

Don, one of my roommates, worked at Proctor & Gamble’s office in El Cerrito north of Berkeley and gave me a ride to and from work. He always allowed twenty minutes for the frequent congestion at the approach to the Bay Bridge. On Tuesday, there was only a brief delay at the bridge so I asked him to drive through West Berkeley on the way to city hall. One-story frame houses with porches. Some neat and tidy with flowers in front, probably older homeowners; others with peeling paint and scruffy yards, likely landlords’ houses. Several corner stores appeared to be closed, but operators might be barricaded inside selling cigarettes and liquor from behind bulletproof glass. A burned-out house awaiting a bulldozer and some vacant lots with knee-high weeds. One lot had a stripped car on cement blocks surrounded by high weeds. The few people we saw were all Black. Don told me not to ask him to drive through West Berkeley again.

The regular bi-weekly neighborhood meeting was on Thursday. John assigned me to color maps showing land use, zoning, and non-conforming uses and be prepared to present them at the meeting after he discussed the overall process for developing a neighborhood plan. With Molly’s guidance, I produced the maps and mounted them. Then she said, “If you cover them with transparent plastic, you can use a grease pen to circle a building or a block when a resident complains about it. The residents like that. I’ve got different color pens.”

After I loaded the maps and easels into John’s car, he said, “Two things to remember: One, don’t volunteer that you’re an intern. No one’ll ask, but if someone does, don’t deny it. Two, don’t make any promises. Nod a lot, be sympathetic, say you understand over and over, and assure them you’ll relay their concerns to City Hall, but you can’t make commitments. For that matter, neither can I. Got it?”

“I understand, I really understand,” I said in a deep voice while nodding vigorously.

He glanced over, said “Smart ass,” and chuckled—much to my relief.

The meeting was in the basement of the New Hope Baptist Church at 5:30 pm. A day care operated by volunteers from the congregation. Slides and climbing equipment for the toddlers were against the back wall and about forty chairs faced a long folding table. After I figured out how to set up the easels, John called me over to meet Mrs. Preston and Mrs. Brown, the Chair and Vice-Chair of the West Berkeley Neighborhood Association. These old women were dressed for church, smart hats and demure dresses. Mrs. Preston held her kid gloves and Mrs. Brown had a stick pin in her lapel. About thirty people were waiting expectantly for the meeting to get underway.

Mrs. Preston began by asking Father O’Toole, a young Catholic priest and the only other white person beside John and me, to lead us in the Lord’s prayer. Then she obtained approval by voice vote to dispense with the review of minutes and hear the gentlemen from the city.

John rose and spoke about the Neighborhood Plan as a guide to improvements and a vision to pursue over the coming years. Implementation would depend on future city, state, and federal funding and action by the City Council, but he touted a plan as the first step in making West Berkeley one of the best neighborhoods in the East Bay.

John introduced me as the staff person who would work with them to develop their plan and submit it to the Planning Commission for approval as part of the official Master Plan. I affirmed John’s reference to “their plan” and quickly reviewed the maps. Mrs. Preston thanked us graciously and asked for questions.

Mr. Douglas, one of the few men present, a straw hat in his lap, asked about the house at the end of his block that burned in the spring. John stood with his pen and tablet and wrote down the address, and I wrote FIRE and circled the word with a red grease pen on my plastic-covered map. John said something about insurance adjusters, but assured the group that he would look into it.

Mrs. Brown rose and said, “Something should be done about Sam’s, the liquor store in the middle of the neighborhood. Young men and teenagers, even some young girls, hang out on the sidewalk until late at night. It’s not good for the young people in our neighborhood.” John wrote on his pad, nodded, and promised to check for any record of selling to minors. I wrote “problem liquor store” on my map. More questions and similar responses followed.

In the car, John said “I think you can handle these meetings. I’ll come to some of the meetings, but it’s your project. Just document everything and keep me informed.”

I was thrilled. I had no doubt that Mrs. Preston and her neighbors deserved a lot of help from this city with a major university and affluent neighborhoods in the Berkeley Hills. At a planning conference in St. Louis that year I heard presentations about “advocacy planning” and read several articles about planners as advocates for people in neighborhoods. I wanted to be an advocate, not just a cog in the bureaucratic machine of city government, especially if nothing ultimately happened to improve the quality of life in the neighborhood.

In the morning, I was ready to go to work for the people of West Berkeley. I stared at the marked up map and pondered ways to pursue their hopes for the neighborhood. What could be done about the burnt out house and the liquor store? I scribbled ideas on my yellow tablet all morning.

After lunch, I was walking past the front counter as Molly listened intently to a citizen upset about something, raising his voice and waving his arms. Walter, my counterpart from Cornell came up behind Molly, and said, “Excuse me, but there’s no coffee.” She nodded, said OK, and turned back to the frustrated man who continued his diatribe. Walter returned to his office.

I had watched Molly make coffee several mornings. I went to the break room, and soon fresh coffee was streaming into the pot. After a sip to check the taste, I returned to the front as the citizen stepped onto the elevator and waved to Molly with a resigned look. She rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, “He wanted me to do something about his neighbor’s barking dog!. Ugh!”

“I guess you had to let him get it off of his chest. He was almost out of control, but you stayed cool. By the way, I made a pot of coffee.” She thanked me profusely. She apparently told others in the office because several thanked me. I was usually the first to arrive, so I began making coffee every morning.

In the next few bi-weekly meetings, I listened to the concerns of the residents and summarized them in reports to John. I tentatively tossed out some ideas for discussion. Maybe the vacant house could become a pocket park.? The city might want to buy the liquor store and make it a police sub-station? A change in zoning could prevent any additional liquor stores.

Everyone lwanted a pocket park, but nearby residents didn’t want a basketball goal in the park. A woman, who lived next to the proposed park, said, “Listening to the kids bouncing a basketball and banging the backboard in the evening is better than wondering what trouble they’re getting into someplace else.” Others weighed in. “Maybe until ten o’clock? Could the lights on the court be turned off then with a timer? “Not all the lights,” someone pleaded. The meetings ran long.

Sam White, the liquor store owner, had more friends in the neighborhood than expected, but most people wanted his store closed. They suggested he move to one of the empty stores on San Pablo Avenue. Definitely new zoning to prevent any more liquor stores.

At the end of August, a week before I returned to Ohio State, I prepared a draft plan for the neighborhood complete with a plan map. I asked John for an opportunity to review it with him. He agreed and said Mr. Barnes should also see the draft plan.

We met at a small table in Mr. Barnes office. After John summarized my assignment for the summer, I launched into a presentation of the West Berkeley Plan. I outlined the proposed zoning change, development of pocket parks, relocation of Sam’s Liquors, conversion of his store to a police sub-station, and several other specific proposals. I firmly stated that these ideas emerged from the neighborhood planning meetings and I fully endorse the plan. I added that I hoped the department would support implementation.

As soon as I concluded, John said, “I hope you’ve not raised the residents’ expectations too much. The city budget is tight. Councilman Thompson, who represents this side of town, always supports businessmen like Sam White. The Chief may not want a sub-station in West Berkeley, and the Park Director would have to maintain these pocket parks. I don’t know about this plan…”

“I understand. I really do understand your concerns, John, but this is what the residents of West Berkeley want for their neighborhood and I hope the City Planning Department will be an advocate for the neighborhood,” I said evenly.

Mr. Barnes cleared his throat and said, “I think you have been very professional in developing this plan with the residents and not for them. Good work! I’m going to inform Professor Stollman that you did an excellent job for us this summer.”

On my last day in the office, Molly called me to the Planning Commission room where the staff had assembled around a sheet cake decorated as a map of West Berkeley, cookies, and a punch bowl with ice cubes floating in lemonade, surely not spiked. Molly fetched John and Mr. Barnes and said, “I’m going to miss Michael. He’s the only intern that ever made coffee for the office every morning.” She continued with some nice comments. John and Mr. Barnes chimed in. I was composed and prepared to express my appreciation to the staff until Molly cut the cake, gave me the first piece, and planted a kiss on my cheek. I awkwardly stammered my thanks.

Grandmother looked terrible, her face faintly blue beneath the fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling and unfamiliar rolls of flesh ringing her neck. Her gray hair was a wispy halo on the stark white pillows beneath her head. Her greeting was barely audible as Dad, Mom, Kathy, Steve, Margy, and I entered her hospital room.

The Grandmother I knew always had rouge on her cheeks, a single firm chin, hair well coiffed, and an announcer’s clipped diction. Before leaving her apartment, she often paused in front of the framed mirror in her living room, removed a gold compact from her purse, and patted a little more red powder on her nose. She favored suits with a stick pin and small hats pinned in place by hairpins. Satisfied with her appearance, she would say crisply, “Let us go, Michael.”

Dad took her hand in his and kissed her sallow cheek followed by Mom and her four older grandchildren. The two youngest boys were with a neighbor. Grandmother’s face lit up as she asked me when I was going to California for my new position.

“It’s just a summer job in the City of Berkeley’s Planning Office. I leave Saturday,” I replied.

“A great opportunity, Michael,” she said in a strong, clear voice. “An article in Time magazine says there are many openings in your chosen profession.”

“Kathleen, Stephen, and Margaret, how are you doing with your lessons? Very important, you know,” Grandmother said turning in bed to look each of them in the eye, one of the practices she often preached to us.

Soon Mom said, “We’d better let you get some rest. You’ll get this operation behind you and soon be with us for Sunday dinner. The roses are blooming.”

On the way home, Dad assured us, “Grandmother will be fine. Removal of the gallbladder is a routine operation. Don’t worry.”

I thought Dad sounded worried.
* * *
Ten days later, I arrived in San Francisco in a car Hertz needed there and contracted with me to deliver. I adjusted to Pacific Time and began my internship in Berkeley’s City Planning Office. I was staying with some friends from Ohio State on Geary Boulevard, not far from Cliff House, a restaurant on a point high above Seal Rock where seals scrambled out of the Pacific and sunned themselves. I slept on the couch unless someone brought a girl home. Then I took my blankets into a long, narrow walk-in closet off the hallway and slept on the floor.

I was surprised when a roommate answered the phone after I got home from work and said it was for me. Mom began, “I’ve got some bad news. Grandmother passed away last night from complications related to her surgery. I’m so sorry, honey.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. How can she be gone?” I said angrily.
“I know. We don’t expect you to turn around and come home. You just got there. You saw her in the hospital.”

I protested, but Mom said she and Dad had decided it was better that way. I knew we simply couldn’t afford the train or even a Greyhound. When I hung up the phone, my roommates had retreated to the kitchen and left me alone. I shouted that I was going for a walk.

My heels hit the sidewalk hard as I walked rapidly toward the the sun setting into the ocean. My hands were jammed in my pockets. I cried. I kept my eyes down. I overtook strolling couples and did not look up when people approached. I tasted tears. My shoulders shuddered. The doorman at Cliff House stared as I passed under the canopy. The seals barked on the rocks below. I followed the walkway as it curved south onto Pacific Highway and sloped from the promontory down to parallel the beach. A cold wind blew in from the ocean. Surf assaulted the beach, and the sky above the darkened the Pacific to blood red.

Memories surged. Grandmother was combing my hair on the steps when I was six or seven years old. Leaning back and smiling benevolently, she said, “You’re such a handsome boy! So smart, too.”

As I walked, I recalled that Grandmother did not tolerate slang. Responding to a question with “Yeah” brought a dramatic frown that was my prompt to say “Yes.” Contractions were also frowned upon. Saying “Where’s it at?” was doubly condemned. Grandmother would say, “There’s no ‘at’ needed. ‘Where is it’ will do.” I cringe today when I hear that unnecessary word at the end of a sentence.

At her Thanksgiving dinners, I needed three thick books to reach the table with a sinuously curved silver candelabra alight that was dangerous and thrilling. Dad struggled to carve the turkey while his younger brother gently placed the needle on a long-playing record that began with Gnoud’s Ave Maria and continued with other hymns. Afterwards my sister and I competed to stack towers of the wood cylinders from spent adding machine tapes that Grandmother brought from her office at Ohio State.

She importuned two OSU All-Americans to sign autographs on blue index cards and brought them to me. I may have them somewhere.

Only a faint light lingered over the black ocean to the west. Grandmother related more than once how her brother John had struggled on his deathbed to see one more sunset. He died shortly after a glorious display of orange, mauve, and purple light in the sky above the Missouri prairie. She concluded by solemnly reminding me that every sunset is a blessing from God’s glory.

She was born in 1890 in the town of Kirksville to the Ryans, a large Irish family, that fled Philadelphia in the 1840s after mobs rampaged through Irish neighborhoods in Philadelphia killing 15 people and burning two churches and blocks of row houses.

The Ryans prospered on the frontier, and Grandmother attended a school for young women where she learned to embroider, crochet, draw, and discuss poetry, literature and art. A student at the nearby osteopathic medicine college courted her in a horse-drawn carriage, and she married the young man everyone called Cal. They relocated to Columbus, Ohio where he obtained an M.D. from Ohio State and established a thriving practice. Her name, Mary Agnes Calvert, was often listed on the Society pages of the Dispatch among the attendees at balls and soirees in the best homes of Columbus. Her three sons, Ed, Bob, and Bill, enrolled at the best Catholic schools. Grandmother’s eyes sparkled when she related the good times after the Great War.

The cold wind from the Pacific had dried my tears. I turned and retraced my steps toward Cliff House. I remembered how Grandmother’s voice tightened when she spoke to me about the following years. “Cal snapped. Something in his mind snapped.” I knew how he had taken up with a prominent socialite, married her, and moved to California as the Great Depression settled upon the country.

Grandmother was humiliated and laid low, but she couldn’t take to her bed with melancholia. She had a teenager and two younger boys to raise, and she was determined that they would have opportunities to be doctors, lawyers or whatever they might aspire to become. Aquinas High School gave Edward a scholarship, probably because he was a star tailback. My dad went to Holy Rosary, a more affordable school on the east side. The family moved from a grand house with two-story white pillars in Clintonville to an older shingled house off Iuka Parkway. Edward worked as a bag boy in the A&P grocery, and the younger boys had paper routes. Jobs were scarce, but Grandmother implored the owner of a movie theater to let her work as a cashier.

I smiled in the darkness as I recalled one of her favorite stories. Ensconced in the ornate booth in front of the State Theater, a boy approached the window wearing a jacket that my dad had left at a playground. Grandmother exited the booth’s back door, marched around to confront the boy, and demanded that he hand over her son’s jacket. Stunned, the boy meekly slipped it off and handed it to her. After relating this, she allowed herself a small chuckle.

“Gone. I’ll never see her again,” I croaked. Another wave of sadness washed over me, and I cried softly. I could see Cliff House’s neon sign in the distance. I buttoned my shirt to my neck against the cool wind.

I saved school tests with a circled A in red pencil to show Grandmother on Sundays. She knew when report cards came out and asked to see them as soon as she arrived for Sunday dinner. She gushed forth praise about each A before turning to the Bs and an occasional C. “You are very smart, Michael, and I am sure you can do better if you apply yourself. Promise me the next report card will be an improvement. You can be a doctor, lawyer, or businessman when you grow up.”

When I spent the weekend with Grandmother, she tutored me on the few treasures she had been able to retain from her years as a doctor’s wife. She taught me to appreciate the sound of fine stemware when pinged and the distinctive quality of good china. A French, marble-topped bureau with intricately patterned inlays was the centerpiece of the dining room. Two small lamps with fringed shades stood on crocheted doilies. An ornate end table and an umbrella stand were also survivors from the grand house where Grandmother hosted soirees in the twenties.

“Someday,” she often told me, “You will have a good position, and you will need to know how to live well. Some people make lots of money, but make fools of themselves.” I remembered nodding seriously as I wondered how they were foolish.

As I climbed the long hill to Cliff House, I knew that Grandmother placed on my shoulders her fervent aspirations to reclaim a prominent place in society for our family. She hoped I would someday own a grand house with a porte-cochere where guests would be met and escorted up broad steps to a bright central hall where a band played and glamorous couples danced. A servant with a tray of champagne flutes would appear followed by another with a tray of small confections.

Grandmother had high hopes for me. One son worked for the government and another was a school counselor. Both were college graduates, but my dad had been diverted by the horrific war and damaged by his experience at the front lines.

The doorman at Cliff House watched me closely as I turned onto Geary Boulevard. The seals were quiet, but the sound of the surf traveled up the rocky cliff. I was thoroughly chilled and eager to get to our apartment. When I unlocked the apartment door, I was grateful that it was dark and I didn’t need to explain to my roommates.

I retrieved my blankets from the closet, spread them on the couch, and lay down in the darkness. It was late, but sleep did not come. I flung the blankets to the floor, grabbed my
tablet of stationery, and went to the kitchen table. I addressed a letter to Dad. After crumpling two half-finished letters, I completed one. Then I began scratching out words and adding phrases in the margin. Finally I inserted the draft into the tablet, and went back to the couch. Eventually I slept.

In the morning, I sipped coffee and read my late night draft. I was surprised. It was pretty good. I rewrote it in my best penmanship with only a few changes and fit it on one page. No unnecessary words, no contractions, and no slang.

Dad thanked me with evident sincerity in a return letter that included a holy card with Raphael’s Madonna on one side and “In Loving Memory of Mary Agnes Calvert” from her sons, their wives and children on the other side.

In the five decades since 1966, I ached to tell her when I secured a good position, received promotions, photographed her great-grandchildren, traveled to Europe, and enjoyed good fortune. She would have said, “Grand, Michael. Just grand.”